"You forget how hard it is to ignore someone who looks the way you do," He replied smoothly, taking advantage of the close proximity between the two of us.
Running his large hands slowly down my arms before looping them around my waist possessively...
The hot water had done little to rinse away the tension from the night before. I stood in front of my fogged-up mirror, the steam curling around me like a second skin as I dabbed at my damp curls with a towel. My skin was still slightly pink from the scalding shower, and I watched droplets race down my arms as if the water carried some kind of answer I hadn't yet figured out.
The penthouse felt quieter than usual— I said that a lot but for real this time, it was like an oppressive kind of quiet. It wasn't just the stillness of the morning—it was the weight of words left hanging in the air.
After our argument last night, I'd expected things to feel lighter somehow, but instead, it felt like the walls were holding onto every sharp word, refusing to let me forget.
I ran a hand through my wet hair, sighing as I turned away from the mirror. My reflection felt like a stranger's—a girl in an oversized gray sweatshirt that skimmed her thighs, the sleeves still slightly damp from where they clung to my wrists. I hadn't bothered with pants yet; no one was here to care, and the soft cotton against my bare legs was one of the only things that felt comforting right now.
I padded into the living room, my steps muted against the cool hardwood floor. The light streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows was unusually bright, highlighting the faint smudges on the coffee table and the creases in the throw blanket I'd left crumpled on the couch. Cleaning was my go-to distraction when I felt like this, but I didn't have the energy today.
Instead, I sank onto the couch and tucked my legs under me, clutching my phone like it was some lifeline. My thumb hovered over the screen, scrolling mindlessly through social media until I landed on Cyrus' name in my contacts.
He wouldn't judge me for wanting to hang out. Cyrus never asked too many questions or pushed too hard. He was easy—a much-needed break from the puzzle that was Matío.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I pressed call.
"Morning, Vi," Cyrus answered after just a couple of rings, his voice warm and familiar. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
I could hear the faint clang of dishes in the background, which probably meant he was at the coffee shop. "Hey, Cy," I said, pulling the blanket over my lap. "You busy?"
"For you? Never. What's up?"
I hesitated, biting my lip. I didn't want to admit I was bored—or worse, that I felt suffocated. "Nothing, really. Just thought you might want to hang out."
